High Five
by SherlockROCKSmySOCKS
Summary: The Doctor and Clara never say what they mean, and many things are left unsaid. Short alternative ending to Before The Flood (9.4), only very mild spoilers - Whouffaldi Twelve x Clara


High Five

He punches in some coordinates and throws a lever, the engines whirring into life once more, the slight vibrations ricocheting through the metal grating beneath his feet and shaking his bones. He feels the slight shift in gravity, the pull of the time vortex on the ship in flight, it tugs at his consciousness.

She's there, just on the other side of the console, mere feet from him, but the distance suddenly feels insurmountable. He can hear her breathing, hear the ruffle of her hair as she releases it from its fastening, the motion wafting the smell of her shampoo, her perfume, and her skin towards him. He feels the tremors of her steps in the floor beneath him, senses her pacing closer by the second, and he is trapped.

He can't look at her, not now, not yet, but he can see her feet, encased in those ridiculous shoes of hers, and he knows she's building herself up. She never moves silently towards him like this unless she's choosing her words carefully. If this was a normal conversation, she'd have started it from the other side of the room, the words tossed casually across the open space. But now, this is different, this is point-blank, and he isn't ready.

'So.'

 _It begins._ He doesn't speak, doesn't look up, finds something to fiddle with on the display, steeling himself.

'You came back.'

''Course I did. Said I would.' He is casual, perhaps too casual given the circumstances, but it's all he has to protect him. He looks up on the last syllable, and he is lost.

She's doing that _thing_ , with her eyes. He knows, of course, that she's on the verge of tears, it's just that he can't recall ever having been so strongly affected by that look on any other face. If he were a superstitious man, he'd say it was witchcraft.

She licks her lips, and he's powerless to stop his eyes following the movement, but it's the way they quiver as she corrals the words on her tongue into order that makes his hearts clench.

'I know, I just-' she pauses, angry with herself, angry with her emotions, and he dare not interrupt her. He's not sure what he would say. What he _could_ say. He's never been much good at saying things, certainly not the right things.

And this is very much the time for saying the right things, he thinks. So he keeps his mouth shut.

She shakes herself and squares her shoulders, taking a deep breath to calm herself. _Drawing up the troops into battle formation._

'What I said, what you said- what you _did_ ,' she halts again, taking a step closer and fixing him with the steadiest gaze she can muster, 'Thank you, and I'm sorry.'

'Why?' he can't catch the question before it's escaped.

She is silent for some time, what feels like hours to him, but she is thinking, he can read it in the crease of her brow, in the colour of her eyes, in the tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders. He can hear it in her breathing and smell it on her skin, sense it in the air between them.

'For not running faster.'

It is a simple thing, and not, he thinks, the thing she had intended to say. But it speaks volumes all the same.

'I'm sorry too.'

'What for?'

Her response is quick, almost sharp, and he senses that her grasp on control is slipping. But she is eager too, for something he cannot fathom, and he hopes desperately that these next words are the right ones to say.

'For leaving you hanging.'

It's about more than the obvious. It always is, with them. Neither of them say what they mean, but that's just how they roll.

He tries to say the rest with his eyes, because his tongue just won't cooperate.

She stares at him, stares _into_ him, and then her eyes are doing the _thing_ again only this time they're spilling over and she's curled her fists into his coat, she's pressing herself against him, sobbing and making a wet patch on his shirt.

It's instinctual, the way his hands gravitate to her waist, settling gently over the curve of her hips. It has to be, because his brain is apparently having technical difficulties.

He's just about gotten his head around this situation when a new one arises, heralded by the progression of her hands up his lapels, scrabbling for purchase. She settles on the area just above his collarbones as an anchor point and pulls. He's not sure whether she intended to hoist herself upwards or drag him down, but she seems to manage a combination of the two. He might have laughed, and made a comment about her height, but she's pressing her lips to his neck, then his jaw and he has just about enough time to panic before she finds his mouth, and he is gone.

Her kiss is bruising in its intensity, all flashes of teeth and tongue and lips, as if she were trying to punish, soothe and thank by turns. Perhaps she is, he wonders briefly, before she forces her tongue into his mouth and digs her fingernails into his scalp, hands twisting his hair almost painfully.

His instincts seem to kick in then, and suddenly he finds himself kissing her back, his grip on her waist tightening as he lifts her onto the edge of the console, something he usually forbids. But then he's between her legs and he's kissing her neck and she's trying to stifle a moan and his brain shuts down completely, his body given over to sensation.

She pulls his head back up and kisses him soundly, bringing him back to reality before he could do something they might both regret. He breathes, feels his mind clearing, glad that at least one of them can be sensible, though he gets the impression that, in different circumstances, she would happily have let them continue. He rests his forehead against hers, a silent thanks, an unspoken declaration, a promise. She smiles, and the whole world seems dull in comparison. He feels the corners of his mouth tilt upwards in response, and he reaches out, taking her right hand in his.

He presses the palms together and studies them for a moment, noting with a pang of affection how much smaller her hands are than his, before meeting her gaze once again.

She gives him that look, that happy, confused, beautiful look he's seen so many times before, and knows he's found the right words to say.

'High five.'

She stares at him for a moment, disbelieving, then bursts into a fit of giggles, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, and his hearts swell.

 _My Clara...my Impossible Girl..._


End file.
